In the mood for a ginger soldier
by imshananay
Summary: Frank learns that he has liver failure and that time is quickly running out. Unable to cope with the news, Frank walks into an unknown bar where he meets very familiar face that sets off a new yearning in him. Frank/Ian M/M don't like, don't read


Hey guys. I am very sorry that I have been away for so long unforeseen circumstances with my computer dying on me prompted a hiatus on writing however I am back with all new material and outlook on writing. As always I appreciate your feedback and criticisms in the comments or by private message. A reminder that I am also a beta reader and am happy to look at any fanfics your writing.

* * *

Frank Gallagher was a typical apple pie loving, gun carrying, beer drinking American. Frank was the type of guy who every frequent visitor of the Alibi knew; both by name, and by legend. When he entered the bar, the patrons were treated to tales of his antics: the time he woke up in Canada after a night of partying like a king, or how the gay community adored him and his now ex- partner in their quest for equality. Yes, Frank Gallagher was more than a man, he was the epitome of blue collar, hardworking American pride; fighting hard against the man. Frank never had a care in the world. His job involved finding ways to use his charisma to launder money from people and hopping from home to home until he caused his housemates to either shoot him, or shoot themselves; either way getting him money from compensation or life insurance. His life was a never-ending fountain of drugs, sex, drinking, and small amounts of money. Which is why it came as a shock to him when the one thing he could truly count on, himself, betrayed him.

"Liver failure?"

"I'm afraid so Frank."

Frank was a well-known patient among doctors in the Chicago health system. Frank could not recall the amount of times he had woken up either in a white bed next to people with bullet wounds in the chest or severed limbs; tubes extruding out of his arms and stomach, or in a waiting room chair being ignored by the staff until he gets up and leaves to prepare for the party to start again. Frank always loathed the men and women in the white coats. They claim to be helping the sick and injured, but all they do is parade about in the crisp, ironed clothes; reciting whatever bullshit they were taught at their pompous colleges from overeducated professors. He despised their offices with their degrees grandly framed and placed behind their desks for all the poor, sick patients to see. Frank read one of them as the doctor went through the pages on his ridiculous clipboard.

 **Masters in medicine and anatomical science**

 **Chicago School of Medicine.**

"I give it about two months, Frank."

Frank snapped back into reality. The doctor stared at Frank from behind his wire glasses. He looked quite fit underneath his coat and tie and sweater. His face was neatly shaven and his hair was expertly trimmed, with a shine across his short, dark fringed that lightly covered his forehead. Not the type of guy that Frank was accustomed to.

"Two months without drinking!"

Frank couldn't deal with sobriety for two days let alone two months, ever since he started drinking at the tender age of eight he always had at least half his vision blurry and a third of his day hazy.

"No, Frank… Two months to live."

The words sliced into his brain like the world's biggest hangover. Frank had never thought about the possibility of dying. Never did anticipate that his life would be cut short; and by what? Some stupid little organ that he had done so much for. That he cared for with bountiful liquor and drugs to cleanse away the bacteria, it was as free of germs as the office he sat in. It must be some mistake.

"This is ridiculous. Frank Gallagher doesn't die from a liver whining like. I'm a Gallagher, and Gallagher's will live forever… Except, you know my mum."

"Frank, you will die. We have warned you and warned you about your drinking and now it's too late… look maybe we can prolong it for a couple more weeks but the fact is you best start saying goodbye to people now before it's too late for that too."

Frank couldn't find words. His mouth was dry. Lips chapped, sweat beaded on his forehead. For the first time since he was eight years old he felt pain. He forgot what pain was. He forgot what reality was. Frank had been forced out of his heaven and into the hell that was the real Chicago, the real world where people had to work for money and good people die before bad people.

"Look, I'll write you a prescription for some pain killers, it'll help when your liver starts breaking up in your body; and you know, who knows, maybe you'll be lucky and end up getting moved up on the donor list."

The doctor reached into a draw from behind the dark, mahogany desk and pulled out a prescription pad. He took out a pen from his front pocket and began writing Franks name on the dotted line. Frank couldn't help but lick his dry and cracked lips at the possibility of being given a free pass to all the painkillers he could ask for. At least if he was going to go, he was going to go his way: convulsing and frothing at the mouth. The doctor ripped of the paper and gave to Frank who, a little too quickly, stuffed it into his coat pocket among the odour of caste wine and last night's vomit.

'You know who I blame for this…"

"No one cares, Frank."

The doctor had already forgotten about the dying drunk at his door and had turned to his computer, googling the best ways to get semen out of a lab coat. With a sigh, Frank left the office and into the familiar throng of old people in wheelchairs with bags of liquid morphine hanging precariously above them. This time, Frank left them, as well as his friends with bullet wounds and severed limbs, becoming just another dying man in Chicago.

Frank sits at the bar stool looking longingly at the shelves of bottles neatly positioned on the wall behind the bar. He was too humiliated to be seen at the Alibi. He knew he would not be able to convincingly portray the lovable larrikin that the Alibi knew and loved so much. Tonight he needed to be a stranger: another nobody at a bar that fades into the background. The bar was more of a night club than and a pub. Lights on the ceiling roved around the large room in a spectrum of neon colours: Pinks reds Purples roamed around the room like spotlights guarding the Chicago county jail. Occasionally the lights would flicker on and off casting the room into flashes of white then delve it into darkness. The loud thump of a remix of Kelly Clarkson and Beyoncé rattled the bar stool and into. Two men, considerably younger, more toned and taller than Frank worked behind the bar, bouncing to the beat of "Crazy Love" as they pour vodka into pink and purple mixers. One bar keeper spots him and dances over to him.

"What will it be, handsome?"

Frank inspected the boy curiously. He wore a mesh shirt that showed his prominent pecs, the muscles as big as a woman's breasts and his toned arms. His tight leather pants fell low on his hips showing an extremely prominent bulge and a chiselled V-line.

"Uh, A beer"

Frank went back to investigating his new surroundings. The atmosphere of the club was alien to him: no pool table that smelled of vomit, piss and gin in the corner next to a destroyed dartboard. No broken jukebox that still had Fleetwood Mac in the new hits list, and the bar tenders weren't repulsed by the mere presence of him. In fact they stared at him intently.

"What type of beer?"

Frank had never been asked that question before

"What?"

"What type of beer? Heineken maybe?"

Frank never looked at what he was drinking. Until now he didn't realise that alcohol even had brand names, he only knew the difference by taste, and just to be sure he'd have to drink a few of each.

"I dunno just… a beer."

The muscle boy chuckled to himself, amused at the overtly masculine response to such a simple answer. He reached under a bar and brought out a clean glass [another aspect of bar life completely foreign to Frank] and a tap of Heineken,

"Must be your first time. What brought you here? The boys?"

The bar men poured the drink into the glass and added three identical ice cubes, no less, and placed it in front of the older man. Frank snatched it from the bar, leaving a light watermark on the black oak.

"The health system."

Frank swivelled in his chair, turning his back to the young man and allowing him to amuse his other patrons. Frank scanned the crowd in the club. He noticed that they were all men: different ages, sizes, colours, but all with the same musky odour, same anatomy, same thing on their minds. Frank allowed himself to finally look at the five platforms that scattered the room. Large circular rises rose from the floor with flashing neon lights studding the sides. A thick smooth pole connected each of them with the ceiling, each golden and covered in a slippery lubricant, clouding the reflection of the young boys that slid up and down on them.

Beneath the slapped on makeup and drug abuse, the dancers were the epitome of boyish beauty. Their faces radiated light, a light that pulled every man in the room to them. At each platform, swarms of hungry men devoured the dancers with their eyes, flinging dollar bills at the pole or, if they got close enough, slowly pushing the money down the dancers' pants; making sure to grab as much as they could before they sashayed away. As Frank watched from afar, the boys continued to grind their meaty clothed crotches against the poles, their bodies writhed an exuded a false, rehearsed sense of eroticism and euphoria. Their eyes were heavily coated in thick eyeliner, smudged beyond repair. Their hair, although trimmed to perfection, saturated with sweat from the heat and fog. Their spandex, gold booty shorts showed every crevice and protrusion of their muscly thighs and impressive cocks. One particular dancer, caught Frank's attention. He placed the beer back on the bar bench and moved towards the dancer's platform, leaving the beer untouched.

Frank joined the throng of men that drooled over the dancer on the pole. He was the most muscular of the dancer, with chiselled abs shining and contorting as he moved his torso back and forth seductively. His ginger hair stood out against his porcelain skin and two dog tags bounced and gleamed around his neck: An army boy. The soldier seemed familiar to Frank. Behind the watery eyeliner, glazed eyes and red nose, was the face of a Gallagher. Frank could see the fire, the passion that is unique to the Gallagher clan. He remembered how Fiona and the rest of his children searched throughout all of Chicago for the dancer in front of them, with no result.

Ian Gallagher.

Frank had never given much interest in the middle Gallagher child. Maybe because he was a ginger, or maybe because he wasn't technically his child. Whatever it was Frank always treated him with aloofness and distance. Now, however, Frank felt a stirring deep inside him when he saw the boy grinding against the lubricated pole. He never realised how Ian's muscled moved underneath his porcelain skin as he lifted himself up onto his hand. His abs were taught and clean, the most muscular of all the dancers in the club. Frank couldn't help but rub his semi-hard dick cock through his jeans.

After a few minutes of intense watching Ian finally reached his break time and headed straight for the leather bar tender. Frank followed him to the bar, walking straight past his lukewarm beer. He waited patiently behind Ian while he flirted with the bar tender. The young man, clearly interested in the red head, surreptitiously rubbing his groin against the bar bench. He glanced in Frank's direction, smiling at the familiar face and made a casual point, letting the dancer know of his presence. He moved away to get Ian his drink. Ian turned seductively to address the potential customer, but once he registered that he knew the man his expression turned to one of confusion and disgust. Ian's instinct told him to immediately go to defensive position, an aura of disdain with just a hint of annoyance pervaded off him.

"What are you doing here Frank? Trying to rip off the fags again."

Frank mouth tweaked into a faint smile. Although he didn't make him himself, he defiantly helped raise him. How else would he get his ballsy attitude?

"Actually just came for a dance."

Frank held up a twenty dollar note in-between his fingers, presenting his intentions to the young boy. Ian raided his eyebrow quizzically.

"Since when do you dry hump drugged up twinks?"

"Can't a man try a new experience? I'm sure you know a thing or two about new experiences, boy."

Ian maintained his air of disinterest. Out of all the members of his family he never thought that Frank would be the one to find him first, especially if all he wants is a petty lap dance from a sluggish dancer half his age.

"Well there are plenty of guys to choose from, have fun."

The bartender returned with his drink: A lemon lime and vodka concoction, prompting Ian to return to flirting with his co- worker. Growing frustrated and impatient, Frank decided to go all in. He walked up to Ian and slammed the bill on the bench.

"I'm actually in the mood for a bit of ginger soldier"

Ian stared at the money, completely shocked at Frank's blatant proposition to be rigorously humped by his own step-son.

"Are you serious?"

One look at Frank's face told him how serious he was. Ian had never seen him so intense when sober. He noticed the spark in his eyes. He had seen it in every one of his customers. Frank wanted him. He wanted him badly, and would do anything to get him. He look at the money once more, laying creased on the wooden bench, neon lights illuminating the paper in different colours.

Twenty bucks was twenty bucks, and it's not like he'd be fucking him.

Ian took the money and scrunched it in his hand. With his other hand he grabbed Frank's wrist and roughly pulled him into the middle of the club. He pushed him onto a black leather armchair. Frank slumped into it, turned on greatly by the forcefulness of the other Gallagher and the off smell and sticky residue on the seat of the chair. Frank thought of the thousands of seedy men sitting in the same spot, enjoying the sweet musk of his son, writhing in his erotic thrusts of his hips.

"I assume you know the rules."

Frank nodded, a little too readily. He didn't want to let Ian know how much his cock yearned for his touch. Ian stood above him like a colossal Hercules. Muscles rippling, lights shining behind him creating a pink and blue aura around his silhouette.

This is just business.

Ian began going through the motions, trying to disconnect how wrong it was to be giving a lap dance to the man he thought was his father for fifteen years. He held up the twenty dollar bill in between his hands for Frank to see He began rocking his hips back and forth to the beat of the music and, seductively, began sliding the bill down the crevasse between his massive pecs. He slowly moved it past each mound of muscle on his torso and down into his tight, golden booty shorts; leaving his fingers pressed against his thick, flaccid cock for second too long before taking it out. Now free of money, Ian was free to saunter over to his customer.

Frank watched the boy intensely as he came closer, and closer, until he was standing in between his legs. Ian crouched down and roughly spread Frank's legs apart, acknowledging the impressive bulge in his customer's pants. He quickly flipped over and, using Frank's thighs as leverage, flung his head back erotically; squeezing Franks cock with the crook of his neck.

"Uggh!"

Frank couldn't help but let out a throaty groan as his dick leapt from a semi-hard six inches to a rigid and throbbing, pressing painfully against his pants and Ian's neck. Ian felt his dick throb a little at the feeling of Frank's thick, hard dick under him. Ignoring the pleasure he felt, Ian begins rolling up to a standing position, leading with his crotch. He turns, swiftly kicking his leg over Frank's head and landing over his thigh, where he delicately sits, grinding his half hard cock on his thigh. He hips continue to sensually thrust to the music, gaining momentum until he was thrusting his crotch into the older man face. Frank revelled in the sight of Ian swinging his large package back and forth, and began to salivate at the formation of the line of the dancers hardening cock. Ian could no longer deny that he felt extremely turned on by grinding against his father figure. His cock was almost at its full nine inches and threatening to pop out of the confines of his tight shorts.

He moved onto the grand finale.

Jumping up onto the arms of the chair, Ian grabbed Frank's head and pulled it into his crotch, smothering him with his clothed cock. Frank was in ecstasy. As Ian grinded his cock against his lips Frank inhaled deeply, taking in the dancers intoxicating musk. Better than any beer, any drug he had ever tasted or snorted or shot up his arm. At that moment Ian was all his. He wasn't a dancer who he paid, his step-son even. He was a hot cock that Frank needed more than anything.

More than anything.

All too quickly the song ended and, a little disappointed, Ian jumped off the chair and returned to his aloof demeanour. Frank got up, harder than he had ever been in his life. He knew he had to have him. But he knew Ian would never reciprocate his feelings. To him he was just a dead beat father who was a stain on Chicago.

"Hope you got what you paid for."

Frank couldn't help but give it a try.

"Indeed I did, boy, and I know you liked it just as much as I did."

"Back off Frank, this was just business."

Ian turned away from Frank, giving him time to sneak up behind him and roughly pull him into his body, grabbing his still hard cock through his shorts.

"Well, if you ever want a little more pleasure from your business, you know where to find me."

Frank let go and walked away, leaving Ian schocked with the lingering feeling of Frank's hand gripping his dick.

Frank's liver failure may have cut his life short, but his short life will be one of excitement, one where he will get what he wants.

He breaths in the cold Chicago air as he exits the club and, for the first time sober, he felt excited about the future.

* * *

Thanks for reading guys. This story was supposed to go for a little longer but I decided to leave it open. If you want to see this story go further, let me know just by commenting or sending me a PM with your thoughts and ideas. I am open to absolutely any ideas you guys may have, no matter how weird. I'm also a beta reader so if you want me to look at any work i'm more than happy to do so. I'm alos looking for a beta reader so if you want to help me with my writing just PM me and we will talk.


End file.
